“No.”
“You checked my pulse.”
“You looked dead.”
“I was asleep.”
“You were on the stairs, Anya.”
She looks away first, embarrassed now.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
The house is still. Morning light creeps across the marble floor below us. Her robe has slipped slightly off one shoulder, showing the pale skin of her neck where my mouth had been last night.
I remember the way she tasted. The way she came.
The way I left her.
My body reacts with immediate, inconvenient interest.
I stand before she can notice. “Come,” I say.
She looks up. “Where?”
“To bed.”
Her eyes widen in disbelief.
“That’s not what I meant,” I say.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
She rises carefully, holding the railing. Her legs seem unsteady, and satisfaction moves through me before I can stop it.
I look away.
She notices anyway. “Don’t look pleased,” she mutters.
“I’m not pleased.”
“You are.”
I step down one stair, closer to her. “If I were pleased, you would know.”
Her breath catches.
The memory of last night enters the space between us so clearly it may as well be another person standing there.
Her eyes drop to my mouth. Only for a second.
Enough.
I take the empty glass from the step. “You need sleep,” I say.
“So do you.”
